


Relative

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Plug, Come as Lube, Corsetry, Exhibitionism, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Happy Ending, High Heels, Holmes Brothers, Kink Exploration, Lingerie, M/M, Margaritas, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft in Lingerie, Real Men Wear Tights, Sexting, Sherlock in Heels, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6722677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After deducing each other's sartorial kink at a crime scene, Mycroft & Sherlock exchange fashion recommendations that end up exceeding expectations in the boudoir.</p><p>Sherlock in heels; John with a foot fetish. Mycroft in lingerie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's [shoes](http://sherlock-in-heels.tumblr.com/image/143181787708) are from Paul Andrew RTW 2014; Mycroft's lingerie is from the Agent Provocateur Lucie line. For the LJ fan_flashworks comm prompt: Relative.

“Bloody hell!”

Lestrade cracked an eye.

Mycroft Holmes did not swear. Not even when he stubbed his toe, if he ever did stub his toe, which Lestrade assumed was possible, theoretically, but which he had never actually seen. Or heard.

And Mycroft Holmes certainly did not swear at—Lestrade looked at his watch in vain—dark o’clock in the morning.

“I’m terribly sorry to wake you, Gregory.”

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, mobile in hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Am I a maid, Gregory?”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

“Am I someone who goes around with a mop and pail, waiting for some in-bred pooch to make a mess on the lino?”

“No,” said Lestrade with some hesitation. Every man’s fantasy was his own, and if Mycroft wanted to…

“No,” agreed Mycroft.

Lestrade relaxed.

“No, I am a professional. My tool is diplomacy. I negotiate, cajole, and, yes, occasionally threaten, but it’s highly skilled work that requires intelligence, subtlety, and an encyclopaedic understanding of the world.”

“Yes,” said Lestrade, feeling on much firmer ground.

“So why am I being called to clean up a mess of decidedly-not international importance?”

“Bosses,” grumbled Lestrade and rolled on his back. “Everybody’s got ‘em. Even the British government. I won’t ask what it is—“

“You’ll learn for yourself soon enough. What is that distasteful phrase Americans have? ‘Never get caught with a dead girl or a live boy.’”

“Mycroft!”

“Apologies, Gregory. For that, for now, and for later.”

_Beep-beep-beep!_

Lestrade sighed and reached for his phone.

* * *

“Am I Columbus, John?”

John cracked an eye.

“Columbus, like Christopher Columbus?”

“No, I mean that man in the wrinkled mackintosh who mumbles. American. Gum. Shoe.”

John laughed. “Columbo? Uh, no. You’re not Columbo. Much better coat, for starters.”

“Exactly! So what’s a pair of dead whores to me?”

“Sherlock!”

“I’m sorry, John,” said Sherlock quickly. “What’s a pair of dead sex workers to me? I pass no judgment on the trade but rather on the fact that said workers’ deaths are dragging me from my bed—“

“Well, technically, it’s _my_ bed.”

“—for a case that is not even a ‘2’ by the most forgiving of standards! I am the world’s only consulting detective! Not some ignorant shamus paid pittance to go around peeping into windows and catch high profile idiots violating their matrimonial vows with other idiots!”

John sat up. “Then just tell Lestrade ‘no’!”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, hesitated, then growled.

John recognised the signs. “Wait, high profile? Is your brother involved?”

“I’m going to solve it so fast that we’ll be back before the sheets have cooled!” Sherlock stormed out of the room.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Come, John!”

John groaned and threw off the covers.

* * *

Lestrade and John stood side by side.

John said under his breath, “Two Holmeses. Looking at one body. To what do we owe the honour?”

“I called Sherlock, of course, but Mycroft? Mycroft is connected to the fact that no one in this hotel seems to be able to tell me or any of my officers who that poor unfortunate fellow with his face ripped off—or his colleague stuffed up the chimney—were here to see. And every single frame of security footage has disappeared for the time periods in question. So I can only conclude that Queen Elizabeth herself has a penchant for tiny rent boys in frilly knickers and high-heeled shoes.”

“Explains the ashtray.”

“What ashtray?”

“Never mind.”

“What are they doing?” asked Lestrade.

“A silent deducing match? A staring contest to the actual death?”

Lestrade hummed.

Then they both watched. And waited to see what would happen next.

* * *

Mycroft and Sherlock’s lips were mute, but their eyes spoke volumes.

_Bit obvious, isn’t it, Sherlock?_

**_Transparent, Mycroft._ **

_Time to move on, then._

They both looked down. Mycroft’s gaze drifted to the victim’s crotch. Sherlock to the victim’s feet.

_Agent Provocateur. Cancan tieside in black. The red would have been more striking, but would not have matched those Apollo hold ups so well. And Gregory, too, does so love, oh, what does he call it?_

_Matchy-matchy!_

**_Louboutin. Fifi Bota Veau Velours. Very feminine silhouette, of course, but I think John actually prefers the higher heel of the Botalili, says it makes my arse_** …

They looked at each other. Then the body. Then back at each other.

_Oh, Sherlock._

**_Oh, Mycroft._ **

Mycroft looked over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s head whipped around and followed his gaze.

_Naughty Doctor Watson!_

**_Lestrade, you kinky bastard!_ **

Then Sherlock whipped back around, and the two brother stared at each other with renewed fury.

_Don’t you dare look at him like that!_

**_Don’t you dare look at him like that!_ **

* * *

“Ever have a nightmare where you’re naked on a very large microscope slide with two grey eyes boring into you?” asked John.

Lestrade shook his head. “No, mine’s an interrogation room and the eyes are blue, but I think the end is the same.” Then he uncrossed his arms. “All right, gentlemen, as much as I love our double date, this is a crime scene, _my_ crime scene so, who am I looking for?”

Mycroft and Sherlock replied at the same time.

“An orangutan.”

“WHAT?!” cried Lestrade. He and John stared, mouths open.

Sherlock busily tapped his mobile, then flashed the screen. “This is your culprit. He is the Grape Ape of the Grape Ape & Mr. Beegly-Beegly, a popular pair of entertainers in the children’s birthday party circuit. Unfortunately, Mr. Beegly has been under investigation for animal abuse and, yes,” Sherlock looked at his phone, “yesterday was taken into custody for public drunkenness after performing a birthday party no less than five streets away earlier in the afternoon. No one knows what happened to Mr. Grape. Well, no one except me and this,” Sherlock gestured to Mycroft, “hippopotamus.”

“The clues are all here, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft waved to various points around the room. “Your team will no doubt put them together. Well, I best take my leave. Good day to you all, Detective Inspector, Doctor Watson, Sherlock.” He nodded and headed towards the door.

Lestrade followed him. “Mycroft, who was here before the monkey?”

Mycroft stopped. “A party will be found.”

“Don’t play word games with me. I want ‘the’ party, not whoever your bosses designate as the fall guy.”

“Detective Inspector, I am certain that you and your cadre of diligent, highly-trained officers…”

Lestrade scowled. “Bloody hell, Mycroft! You think I want to eat the dog shite you clean up?”

“Gregory...”

Lestrade turned and strode to the other side of the room, yelling, “DONOVAN! We’ve got the murders in the Rue _fucking_ Morgue here!”

* * *

John shook his head as he watched Mycroft leave. “Who was it, Sherlock? Who was the client?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course, you know. You know everything.”

“I’m not actually clairvoyant, John. I need…”

“Yeah, yeah. Bricks, clay. Go on and keep your brother’s secret. You two. You think you’re so different from each other, but you’re not. You both play by your own set of rules and to hell with the rest of us, the idiots in the room.”

“John…”

John glanced at the body and then over at the fireplace. “Poor kids. They must’ve been terrified. The animal, too. Christ. I hate these cases.”

“John…”

John waved a hand. “I’m going to go get Greg a decent cup of coffee. He’s going to need it. And a hundred more after it. He’s right. Rue _bloody fucking_ Morgue. Dupin. The whole lot. As soon as this hits the news, high profile client or not, it’s going to be a circus.”

* * *

“You want a cigarette.”

“No, what I want is to not be in a café with you, Brother Mine. You contacted me. What do _you_ want?”

“How’s Lestrade?”

“The Detective Inspector is extremely busy, naturally, what with a case that’s garnering so much media attention—“

“He slept on our sofa for a couple of hours yesterday.”

“Yes, well…”

Sherlock put his mobile on the table and turned it toward Mycroft.

“Maybe this would help.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the image on the screen. “The weather’s ghastly this time of year,” he said.

“Indeed. Everyone yearning for a bit of sun,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft hummed. “Spring. Touch of green.” He drew out his own mobile from a coat pocket and placed it on the table beside Sherlock’s. He tapped the screen three times.

Sherlock eyed it. One side of his mouth twitched. Once.

Then they both grabbed their respective phones and stood.

“Well, this has been wholly unpleasant. Always horrible to see you, Sherlock.”

“You, too! Let’s do this again, never.”

* * *

Lestrade cracked an eye.

“Hey, stranger,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Gregory.”

“Afternoon?” Lestrade sat up and looked at his watch. “Half my day off’s already gone!”

“It’s good to see you,” Mycroft swallowed, “that is, good to see you looking so rested.”

Lestrade nodded. “Fourteen hours of sleep will do that to you. You home for lunch?”

Mycroft tilted his head to one side.

Lestrade sighed. “Forget that. I should know by now: you don’t eat lunch.” He raked his eyes up and down Mycroft. “Should I head for the doomsday bunker?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“You only wear that suit when you’re playing with the bad, bad guys. The ones that have nothing to lose. ISIS? North Koreans? Chechens?”

“Burmese.”

Lestrade laughed. “Of course. Did you win?”

Mycroft smiled. “Negotiations went better than anticipated.”

“Ha, ha! Christ, you’re amazing.”

“I was feeling a bit pleased so I made a slight detour on the way home.”

“That bakery?”

“No. The, um, neighbouring establishment.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose and he grinned. “Really?” He looked about. “Are you going to show me now? Or do I get a private viewing later?”

“Negotiations went _much_ better than anticipated.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “Shit, Mycroft. You’ve got it on now?! Under that?!”

Mycroft looked down at the ground and rocked back on his heels. He nodded.

“You fucking tease. You fucking, fucking, fucking tease.” Lestrade crawled towards the foot of the bed, his eyes on Mycroft’s waist. When he reached the edge, he raised up on his knees. His hands hovered over the buttons of Mycroft’s suit jacket.

“May I?”

“Yes, please.”

Lestrade unbuttoned and opened Mycroft’s jacket. “Tease me some more. What colour, Mycroft? Purple?”

“No.”

Lestrade hummed. “And on my day off, too. I am a lucky boy, aren’t I? Pink?” He began to unbuckle Mycroft’s belt.

“Yes and no.”

“Ah. A little pink and white number. Or pink and black. Pink and black, with matching hold ups. That’s my cock’s best deduction.”

“I’d rather leave deducing pricks out of this, makes me think of—“

Lestrade put two fingers to Mycroft’s lips. “Let’s not speak of him, shall we? I was just about to get seriously hot and bothered.”

“Too late for me.”

At the strain in Mycroft’s voice, Lestrade looked up. He cupped the front of Mycroft’s trousers and felt his hardness. “Oh, love.” He rubbed gently. “That good, eh? Christ, I’m getting hard, too. And I haven’t even seen it yet.”

“Gregory.”

Lestrade opened Mycroft’s trousers and sat back on his heels.

“Oh!” he breathed. “Yellow. Jesus _fucking_ Christ. With pink lace. Knickers and a matching belt. Champagne tights. Yes, sir. I am a very lucky boy.”

He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist and pushed his hands inside dark trousers. He pressed his face to the centre of yellow silk and mumbled, “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yellow.” He kissed Mycroft’s cock through the fabric. “Oh, baby!” Then he kissed it again. And again. And again.

“The colour doesn’t drain me?”

“Oh, love, nothing’s going to drain you but me. I’m going to suck every last drop of come in you, My, then wait for your to make more, and suck you dry again.”

He rose up and cupped Mycroft’s face with two hands and covered his lips, cheeks, and chin with sloppy, wet kisses. “Cloak and dagger and pencil-pushing are going to have to wait.” Lestrade shoved his hands back down Mycroft’s trousers and squeezed his arse hard. ”All right, if I suck you, then suck you again, sweetness?”

“Sounds like a capital plan,” said Mycroft hoarsely. “I believe that I am,” he rolled his eyes in mock schedule-checking, “free for the rest of the day.”

“Perfect.” Lestrade looked down. “My baby’s sweet little lemon yellow knickers,” he cooed. Then he looked back at Mycroft’s flush face and kissed his cheek. “Okay if I make a fuss over you?” he whispered.

“It’s much, much more than okay,” breathed Mycroft. He made to take off his suit jacket, but Lestrade stopped him.

“First, I want to suck you just as you are. My big, bad man in his sweet little knickers.” Lestrade released Mycroft’s arse and dropped low on the bed. He inched forward until he could nuzzle Mycroft’s crotch like a dog. “Mmm. Pull those pretty knickers down so I can have a taste, hmm?”

Mycroft pushed the damp silk down, and Lestrade swallowed his cock.

“Gregory!”

Mycroft swayed on his feet.

“Mmm-hmm.” Lestrade sucked hard, taking more and more of Mycroft’s prick in his mouth, until he had as much as their positions and Mycroft’s clothing would allow. Pink lace rubbed against his chin, and he groaned.

So did Mycroft. He rested his two hands on the back of Lestrade’s head and spread his feet wider. “I missed you so much, Gregory.” His hips pushed into Lestrade’s mouth, and Lestrade moaned.

Lestrade pulled off Mycroft’s cock and licked the line where yellow silk met pubic-hair covered skin on either side of his shaft. “Missed you, too. Oh, so much, my baby. Christ, this cock was made for sucking.”

Lestrade licked up Mycroft’s prick and began suckling the head, teasing the slit gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Gregory!”

Mycroft patted the back of Lestrade’s head clumsily.

Lestrade drank him down as he came.

Mycroft brushed a hand across Lestrade’s cheek.

“I love you, too, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s bottom lip quivered.

Lestrade crawled back onto the bed, behind Mycroft, and eased his suit jacket off his shoulders. “Let’s get you undressed.” He pressed his lips to Mycroft’s temple. Then he kissed Mycroft’s neck and nibbled at his earlobe.

“Then I’ve got some fucking to do, don’t I? Fuck my baby’s sweet hole.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply.

“Yeah, it’s going to be good.” Lestrade kissed the other side of Mycroft’s neck and began unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. “Sink this big cock into my baby’s tight hole. Oh, Christ.”

When Mycroft’s shirt was off, Lestrade gazed as his bare back and sighed. “So beautiful.”

He kissed along one of Mycroft’s shoulders to the nape of his neck and then back down the other shoulder, murmuring, “My baby, my sweetheart, my pretty little thing with pretty tight knickers and a pretty tight hole! Christ, what a lucky boy, am I!”

Mycroft leaned into every touch, every word, and purred.

Then Lestrade rested his chin on the ridge of Mycroft’ shoulder. “Oh, look! Pretty pink buds to match the lace. And you know what I love? Matchy-matchy, matchy-matchy!” he sang.

He licked his thumb and reached around to tease one of Mycroft’s nipples.

Mycroft turned his head, and Lestrade kissed him, sucking his bottom lip between lips and teeth. He felt Mycroft’s nipple pebble beneath his touch. “There’s two buds, sweetness. I want to taste the other one.” He imitated the motion with his mouth along Mycroft’s jawline and on the tip of his nose.

“Yes, please.”

Lestrade sank back to the floor and removed Mycroft’s shoes, socks, and trousers.

“As much as I adore these knickers, love, they’re a mess, love, let’s take them off. We’ll leave this on, of course.” He plucked one of the pink ribbon drops of the suspender belt, and it snapped against Mycroft’s thigh.

Lestrade peeled the knickers off Mycroft’s legs. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an arse, Mycroft. You know you can always…” He stuffed the silk in his mouth and looked up, grinning.

Mycroft snatched the wad out of Lestrade’s mouth and threw it across the room. “Why would I _ever_ want to silence you, Gregory? And I’m sorry, too. There were a thousand better ways to handle the situation than the one I chose. For someone who purports to wield diplomacy, I certainly failed with the one party that matters most. Ego, pride, arrogance…”

Lestrade leaned up and kissed Mycroft’s lips. “It’s okay, Mycroft.” Then his voice fell. “I still want to suck that pretty pink bud and fuck that gorgeous arse.”

Mycroft smiled. He slid a hand back and forth along the suspender belt and grinned. “I believe the phrase is ‘Come and get it.’”

Lestrade laughed and launched himself at Mycroft, pushing him onto his back on the bed. He gave Mycroft’s areole one swipe of his tongue, then covered it completely with his mouth, sucking hard, while his hands returned to Mycroft’s arse.

“Gregory.” Mycroft caressed Lestrade’s back, shoulders, and arms.

“You need me, baby?”

“So much.”

“What do you need? Tell me.” He kissed down Mycroft’s stomach to the yellow silk of the belt and rubbed his cheek against it.

“I need _you_ ,” insisted Mycroft.

“Where, precious?” Lestrade bit the elastic edge of the belt and tugged, then let it go with a snap. “I could fuck that gorgeous mouth of yours. Or those sexy thighs.”

Mycroft huffed and said in a higher pitch, “I need you, right here!” He rolled away and sat up, facing the wall. Then he leaned forward and spread his buttocks.

Lestrade leapt towards the bedside table and returned with lubricant.

“I have to stretch you first, sweetness, he said, coating a finger with slick.

“Hurry up!”

_SMACK!_

A flat hand slapped Mycroft’s buttock hard. He turned, wide-eyed.

Lestrade leaned back and quickly poured some lubricant into his palm. He began stroking his cock with a very light hand. “I love you, baby, love you with everything I am, but I can take care of myself and make you watch if you don’t mind your manners.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft cried. He shifted and crawled toward Lestrade. “I’ll be good. Please. I can do it myself.” He reached for the bottle of lubricant.

“No. Turn around.”

In an instant, Mycroft’s face was in the bedding, his arse in the air.

Lestrade prepped him slowly and gently, and Mycroft kept his impatience to the occasional whimper and wriggle.

Finally, Lestrade positioned the head of his cock at Mycroft’s rim. “Don’t worry, baby, next time, I’m going to eat your sweet arse out first.” He pushed into Mycroft. “Put my tongue inside you and make you feel so very good.”

Mycroft groaned and spread his knees wider.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Lestrade, massaging Mycroft’s lower back and rolling his own hips forward, “take it, precious, take that big, fat cock. There it is, there, there. I’m not going to last long, sweetheart, oh, God. Not long at all. Not in a tight hole like that. My lemonade baby, such a sweet, sweet fuck. My, My!”

Lestrade slammed into Mycroft as he came. He took a few deep breaths, fully sheathed, then pulled out slowly.

“Gregory.”

“Hmm?” Lestrade stared at Mycroft’s arse, framed by the yellow and pink of the suspender belt. He teased the rim with one finger as the come dribbled out. “I can’t wait ‘til next time,” he said, then pressed his face to Mycroft’s cleft and licked.

“Gregory!”

Lestrade sucked and licked and probed Mycroft’s hole, swallowing everything as it leaked. Then he sank his teeth into the fleshy centre of Mycroft’s buttock.

“Gregory!”

Lestrade snickered and did it again.

When Mycroft rolled onto his back, Lestrade settled between his legs and nibbled playfully at his inner thigh. “I’ll stay here until you’ll ready to go again, love.” He licked one of Mycroft’s balls and then took the other in his mouth and suckled gently.

“Gregory…”

“I want you to fuck me, Mycroft.”

“Gregory?!”

“I know I don’t usually go in for it, but I really want your cock in me.” He reached out and caught Mycroft’s hand in his and squeezed. “Just roll me on my side and, God, make me yours, love. I want the burn. I want to howl from it.”

“Goodness!”

“Too much?”

Mycroft inhaled loudly, then said in a shaky voice, “No, absolutely not. Just a bit…”

“It’s this, this fucking thing.” Lestrade licked one of the pink ribbon drops that linked belt to stocking. “I want to, want to…it drives me absolutely crazy…I need more of you, please…I know I’m an old man, but I feel like a fucking teenager when I see you….the yellow and the pink…”

“I had no idea that my, uh, selection would be _quite_ so favourably received.”

“You’re a fucking genius, Mycroft.”

“Apparently.”

“And so incredibly _fuckable_. I want to make a mess of this whole bed. This whole house. What do you say?”

“Oh, God, yes!” Mycroft cried, then added hastily, “And then I’d like to ensure that the firm that fashions these inspiring garments is financially solvent for the rest of our natural lives.”

Lestrade laughed and kissed Mycroft’s thigh.

“I love you, Mycroft.”

* * *

As John climbed each step, more and more of Sherlock came into view.

Head, shoulders, waist.

He was in his most dashing suit, the dark one that fit him like a glove, and a crisp white shirt…

John looked at his watch. “Am I late? I thought the concert was at seven and dinner after…” He stopped when his gaze reached Sherlock’s feet.

“Holy Mary!”

Sherlock was wearing emerald green, high-heeled, open-toed sandals. From two straps, the top crossed at the ankle and the lower over the ridge of his foot, hung matching green feathers. Sherlock’s toenails had been painted the same shade as the shoes.

John fell to his knees, slack-jawed. One word fell from his lips.

“Green.”

“Excellent observation, John.” Sherlock smiled and his tone lacked the vitriol usually reserved for statements of the obvious. “I’m glad that you like the colour.”

John looked up and, still reduced to single syllables, asked, “Walk?”

Sherlock nodded. John crawled across the floor until he had a direct view of the hall.

Then Sherlock strut down the hall. He pivoted at the end and made the return journey to where John was seated on the floor.

John smiled. “Again?”

Sherlock did it again and again until John finally said, “They are the most beautiful shoes I’ve ever seen. On the most beautiful feet I’ve ever seen.” He looked back at Sherlock’s armchair. “Um, is there time to, uh, that is, could I…?”

“Pay homage?”

John blushed and nodded.

“There’s time,” said Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock sat in his chair. John sat on the floor.

John pressed his lips to each of Sherlock’s toes. Then he removed Sherlock’s shoes and set them beside him and turned his attention back to Sherlock’s feet.

“I know you just had a pedicure…”

“It’s not the same, John. Not at all.”

John lifted Sherlock’s foot and put his big toe in his mouth and sucked. Then he hummed and pulled off and traced the toenail with the very tip of his tongue. He looked at Sherlock’s feet, then at the sandals, then up at Sherlock’s face.

“Weird, I know. I don’t just think you’re a body part, Sherlock. I love all of you, inside, outside…”

Sherlock put a finger to John’s lips. “As I’ve said before, John, it’s not weird. It’s perfect: you like to adore me, and I like to be adored—and expensively accessorised—from the ankle, and sometimes knee, down.”

John smiled. “Why green? The others are black.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Thoughts of spring?”

John chuckled. “You always surprise me. Are you sure there’s time?”

“Please, John. There’s always time.”

John worshipped Sherlock’s feet.

He kissed his ankles and insteps. He rubbed his cheek against his arches. He sucked each toe in turn, then sucked them again. He licked and licked and licked and then took the lotion that Sherlock offered and massaged Sherlock’s feet with firm, deep strokes until Sherlock growled.

“Shoes.”

“I love this part,” confessed John.

“Me, too.”

John slipped each shoe on and fastened it. He bent his head and tickled his nose with the feathers.

“Beautiful,” he said. Then he began unfastening them.

“John? We have time. I can wear them a bit longer before changing for the concert…”

John shook his head. “It’s always been enough before, just this, but tonight I want to…” He looked up at Sherlock. “…I want to fuck you in them. And only them. Now. Right now. If you’re amenable.”

Sherlock stared, then blinked, then nodded.

John slipped the sandals off Sherlock’s feet and held them in one hand by the straps. Then he stood and extended his other hand to Sherlock.

As Sherlock took the offered hand, John swept Sherlock up in his arms and carried him, and the shoes, down the hall.

“My princess,” he said as he kicked the door shut.

* * *

“My princess,” moaned John. He was cock-deep in Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock was flat on his back on the bed, naked save for the shoes, bent almost in half with his legs hooked over John’s shoulders.

The pointy heels of the sandals dug into John’s back as he thrust. Sherlock raised his feet, but John protested.

“Don’t. I want to wake up with bruises on my back tomorrow. Mark me with those gorgeous slippers; mark me so that I feel it for a week.”

“John?!”

“Please, love.” John stilled and leaned forward to take Sherlock’s mouth in a long, soft, tender kiss, entirely at odds with their rough coupling. “It’s not something I’d normally ask for, but those shoes…” John laughed. “You _are_ a fucking genius.”

“Apparently.”

John resumed his thrusting. Deeper. Faster. With more urgency.

Their eyes locked.

“Argh!”

John cried out at the sharp pain to his lower back; his hips bucked against Sherlock, and he came.

At once, he pulled out of Sherlock and lowered Sherlock’s legs to the bed. Then he reached for the lube.

Very soon he was taking Sherlock’s prick in hand and pumping it through a tight, slick fist.

“I want you to feel as good as I do, love. Come for me, princess.”

“John!”

Sherlock lurched off the bed, decorating them both with streaks of come.

John bent and stuck out his tongue, dragging it through the mess across Sherlock’s stomach. “Gorgeous,” he said when he caught Sherlock’s lust-blown gaze.

Sherlock reached for him.

John leaned up and peppered Sherlock’s face with kisses. “Beautiful,” he whispered, over and over.

Then he stopped and frowned. “Sherlock, tell me the truth: are we late? Or have our plans changed?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Concert’s at eight. You know how partial I am to Norman-Neruda’s splendid attack and bowing.”

John grinned. “Sneaky.” His eyes travelled down the length Sherlock’s body. “Sherlock, I want you to wear them tonight. All night.”

When John’s eyes returned to Sherlock’s face, he saw wide eyes and trembling lips. He continued in a low voice. “I know I said I wanted it to stay behind closed doors, Sherlock, but I don’t want that anymore. You’re so beautiful, and I don’t care what anyone says or thinks of us. I’m a lucky man to have someone like you by my side. And those shoes are as striking and singular as you are. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of. So, wear them, if you want to.”

“Of course, I want to,” said Sherlock, softly. He swallowed and shook his head. “I just never thought…. Well, today is a day for surprises, isn’t it?”

“The only problem is that I’m going to want to fuck you at intermission, and at the restaurant, and in the cab home.”

“I suffer through, somehow,” said Sherlock, his lips twitching in a smile.

* * *

Mycroft read the screen for the third time.

**Thank you. SH**

Then he swore under his breath.

“Bloody hell.”

Lestrade grunted. “God, not again!”

“No, go back to sleep, Gregory. I just, uh, stubbed my toe.”

Lestrade giggled and rolled over. “Holmeses! They’re just like the rest of us!”

Mycroft tapped his phone and set it back by the table.

**You’re welcome. Thank you as well. Have a wonderful evening. MH**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [FrankyOh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankyOh).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's heels are Badgley Mischka Harvey in red and Jimmy Choo Cinderella 110.

“Tough day ahead?”

Mycroft nodded. “And woe if the other party is able to read me easily as you do, Gregory.”

“Nah, whoever they are, they haven’t had as much practice. Nor do they have as much incentive.” Lestrade leaned up and kissed Mycroft’s bare shoulder. “But I have something that might help. A gift. You didn’t deduce it, did you?”

“I have not applied my powers of observation to anything even closely resembling a box under the bed since the unfortunate incident that prompted our lengthy discussion regarding Christmas.”

“Good. I know you hate surprises.”

“But I you love surprising me.”

Lestrade tumbled onto the floor and, upon retrieving a flat, lidded box from under the bed, placed it beside Mycroft and gestured for him to open it.

“Oh, Gregory.”

“I know it’s usually just knickers, but, um…”

Mycroft lifted the black-and-grey-pinstriped corset from a cloud of tissue paper. Then he brought it close. “It’s exquisite. The fabric, stitching, ribbons, and boning, all of superior quality.”

“Made to order so it’s one of a kind,” said Lestrade. “Like you. And I thought it might give you that something extra you need to, um, knock ‘em dead. Or whatever. You like to be in control and it’s—“

Mycroft silenced him with a kiss. Then he pulled back and said, “It’s magnificent and so are you.”

Lestrade fingered one of the laces. “The best part is that it is a two-person operation. This morning, I get the pleasure of lacing you up and tonight, to celebrate your success, I get the even greater pleasure of unlacing you.” He grinned.

Mycroft kissed him. “You are a proper genius, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade kissed him back.  “When it comes to you, I’m not half bad.”

Mycroft held up the corset again. “I think something this fine requires an _ensemble_.”

“Don’t let me see the knickers, Mycroft. It will be challenge enough to get you into that thing without making you very late, and I’d hate to have World War III on my conscience.”

“Very well. Thank you, Gregory.” He touched his forehead to Lestrade’s and smiled.

“I love you, too, Mycroft Holmes.”

* * *

“Poor girl,” said John, looking down. “To be controlled like that, and by someone who purported to love her.”

Lestrade shook his head. “He even put a tracking device in her mobile.”

“Maybe he was just concerned,” said Sherlock. “She _was_ hiding something.”

John and Lestrade glared at Sherlock.

“A bit not good?”

“A lot not good,” said John. “So it’s okay to stalk someone as long as you say that you love them. It’s okay to monitor their financials, online activity, all that.”

Sherlock huffed. “He suspected something, and his suspicions were correct. His reaction was, of course, unfortunate—and boringly predictable.”

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John and laughed. “You two have been together for how long, and you haven’t had the Talk yet?!”

“What talk?” asked John.

“The one where you tell Mister Holmes what happens if he continues to monitor your phone records, your bank account, and every time you take a piss in a public toilet. Spoiler alert! The real fun begins when you explain why deducing his Christmas gift in bloody October will render him shag-less for a fortnight!”

John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock stared at Lestrade.

Lestrade stared at the body. “Sherlock, why don’t you give me the name of the murderer, if it isn’t who I think it is, and then you two can go and not muck up my crime scene with your little domestic?”

Sherlock returned Lestrade’s saccharine smile. Then he grabbed John’s notepad and pen and scribbled; thrust a torn sheet of paper at Lestrade’s chest; and ran to catch up with John, who was marching toward the exit.

Lestrade glanced at the paper, then said, “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we are looking for a culprit who goes by the unusual moniker of ‘Fuck You.’ Mister You, should be fairly easy to find…”

* * *

“You look at me and read volumes, Sherlock, why do you need more?”

“Most of the time, observing is enough, but on rare occasion it only tells half the story.”

“And you don’t want to—oh, I don’t know— _ask me?!_ ”

Sherlock huffed. “As I said, there are _very_ rare occasions when…”

“What occasions?!”

“You saw Mycroft last week!”

John’s jaw clenched. He pursed his lips.

Sherlock studied at the passing scene outside the taxi window. “Why would you need to see Mycroft? Something about me? Something about someone else? It isn’t money; you haven’t been gambling again.”

“Again?!”

“When we met John…”

“I did _not_ have a gambling problem.”

“No, you had a losing problem. Your health? Last blood panel was fine, except for the high LDL, which was expected given your diet...”

“My medical records, too!”

“Harry’s still in rehab. Does she need money?”

“Oh, so you’re stalking my sister now?! Sherlock, this is not good. Not. Good.”

“Then tell me, John, why did you see Mycroft?”

“None of your business.”

“You see my brother in secret, and it’s none of my business?!”

“Yes. You’re going to have to trust me, but how in the hell am I going to trust you, Sherlock? If I don’t tell you what you want to know, are you going to strangle me like that woman’s husband? I’d love to see you try!”

“John…”

“When we get back to Baker Street, I am packing an overnight bag and I am going somewhere. Maybe Lestrade’s old flat, he hardly every uses it. Maybe Harry’s, I still have keys after the last stint. Maybe a hotel. I don’t know. I can’t think straight with you justifying your behaviour!”

“ _I_ can’t think straight knowing that you’re sneaking around with my brother?!”

“Oh, that is the cake-taker!”

“The what?”

“The thing that takes the cake! You actually think I am having an affair with your brother! You, who sees everything, cannot deduce that I did not have sex with your brother!” John laughed. “Didn’t you run my clothes under a UV light?”

Sherlock bit his lip.

“Did you, Sherlock?!”

“Thursday was laundry day,” he grumbled.

“Good Lord! Can you even comprehend how wrong that is?”

“If you’re planning to break up with me, I want to know…”

“That’s the most illogical thing you’ve ever said. Even if I were, why would I talk to Mycroft about it? And for once in your life, pay the bloody cab!” John slammed the door.

* * *

“Where’s my brother?!”

“Unavailable,” she said, without looking up from her Blackberry.

“We’ll see about that.”

* * *

“Good evening, Detective Inspector.”

“I don’t have time for your drama, Sherlock. I’m on my way home.”

“False. You’re on your way to Mycroft’s home. And he’s not home yet.”

“How do you know?”

“Security threw me out of where he is less than half an hour ago.”

“Christ, it must be pretty hush-hush if even you can’t penetrate their defences.”

“Indeed.”

“So, John’s at mine tonight.”

Sherlock held out a pack of cigarettes.

“No way,” said Lestrade. “I got far too much on the line to come home smelling like an ashtray.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Lestrade grabbed the pack and tossed it in the river. “Even a second hand ashtray. You really don’t get it, do you?”

Sherlock stared at the water. He shook his head.

“Do you want to really understand? Do you want to change? Because if you fake some kind of reconciliation and go snooping again, he’ll find out, somehow, someway, and that’ll be the end of the two of you. You only get one chance to make this kind of thing right.”

“Help me, please.”

“All right,” Lestrade said, throwing his arm across Sherlock’s bent shoulders. “Let Papa Greg break it down for you…”

* * *

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, but will you do it again?”

“No.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock.”

“I could fashion a protection system for your computer, your mobile, but, of course, anything I created, I could hack. So I don’t know how to prove that I understand and that I won’t go snooping again, but I won’t. I’ll just learn to live with the unknown, beyond what my senses can relate.”

“I am not just an extension of you, Sherlock. I am my own person. I have secrets, private thoughts. I want to feel like I can go online and watch some porn or buy something without you looking over my shoulder.”

“Speaking of which, in the interest of full confession, I knew about your predilection from your browser history.”

“Which I delete!”

“Nothing’s ever really deleted, John.”

“Sherlock! Wait, you told me that you deduced it by the way I looked at—“

“I did! I just wanted to confirm my deduction before I revealed my own, highly complementary—“  

“Oh, so my fetish is fair game, but yours isn’t!”

“It was wrong! I know! Lestrade explained—“

“Wait, does Greg know about me?!”

“No, of course not! I just needed help understanding and Mycroft was in a meeting and you weren’t answering my texts…”

“Well, I guess if anyone could stand-in for me in this situation, it would be Greg.”

“Please come home, John. Come back. Whenever—if ever—you’re ready.”

“Sherlock, I can hear you reading. Did you write a script or just take notes?”

“Lestrade provided a concise list of the most salient points.”

John laughed. “Of course, he did. All right, but Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“One chance.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s at the top of the list.”

* * *

Lestrade heard the beep.

_WHAM!_

He slammed his whole body into Mycroft’s until they were pressed together, Mycroft’s back against the front door. Then he cupped Mycroft’s face with both hands and he kissed him hard, only pausing for ragged breaths and jagged phrases.

“Things went very—“

“Hmm. Saw it on the news—“

“Sherlock—“

“Ok. Later. You. Now. Been thinking all day about this.”

Mycroft groaned. Two sets of hands went to work, unfastening the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, yanking his tie askew.

With the corset exposed, Lestrade moaned, “Fuck, yeah,” and ran his hands up and down the black-and-grey satin.  “I know I should carry you to the bedroom, but I’ve got half a mind to take you right here, right now. Tell me: what do you want?”

“You are, by nature, such a gentle, generous lover, Gregory, but I wouldn’t be object to the kid gloves being temporarily removed.”

Lestrade stopped his caressing and met Mycroft’s gaze. “Did my baby just asked to be fucked rough like the sweet little tart his is?”

Mycroft smirked. “You aren’t the only one who’s been thinking today.”

Lestrade laughed and licked his lips. “First, I want to see what you’re wearing, baby, all of it.” He pushed Mycroft’s trousers open to reveal a pair of black knickers. “Good choice. Simple. Elegant. Lovely. Too bad I won’t get to see them much, seeing as how you’re going to be on your knees.” His hands went to his own belt.

* * *

“That’s right, baby, just like that.” Lestrade looked down, with the palm of one hand flat on the door, bracing himself, and the other twined in Mycroft’s hair, guiding his head. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you? Been gagging for it all day, eh? Wanting to wrap your lips around it, swallow it down, just like that. Hold still, baby. I’m going to fuck that mouth.” Lestrade began with minute thrusts.  “You want more?”

Mycroft made a muffled noise.

Lestrade thrust harder, deeper, still with a light hand on Mycroft’s head. “My sweet baby, all dolled up, on his knees, takin’ that cock like a pro. Oh, God, Mycroft, I’m coming.”

Lestrade jerked Mycroft’s head back and pulled his cock out of his mouth. Then he pushed himself away from the door and covered his cock with his free hand, letting the come coat his palm. 

He hoisted Mycroft to his feet and turned him to face the door, then with a raw, rough voice, said, “You’re going to paint that door, baby. And the only lube you’re going to get is what I got in my hand, so you’d better be quick, or it’s going to hurt.”

One, two, three tugs of Mycroft’s cock and he was coming, but scant drops reached the door, most dribbled down the front of Mycroft’s knickers and his trousers.

Mycroft looked over his shoulder and shot Lestrade a coy glance, then he whispered in a breathy falsetto, “I’ve made a mess of them. Guess I’ll have to take them off.”

Lestrade watched as Mycroft eased his trousers and knickers down, pausing when the black silk spanned the widest point of his buttocks.

Then the cheeky bastard wriggled his arse.

Lestrade groaned and bit the ridge of Mycroft’s shoulder, grimacing at the taste of suit jacket.

“Bedroom. Clothes off. Wet flannels. Corset off. Then as much fucking as these two bodies can bear.” 

“Sounds lovely. Lead the way.”

“Nah. The kid gloves are back on, love.”

Lestrade kissed Mycroft gently, then bundled him in his arms.

* * *

Mycroft ran his fingertips along Lestrade’s arm. “Sherlock…”

Lestrade looked over his shoulder “…and John have not had the Christmas gift talk.”

“Oh my. My brother’s been snooping, has he?” Mycroft tilted his head. “I suppose something of late must have sparked his curiosity.”

“I guess so, and here’s the incredible part:  John didn’t know what Sherlock had been doing. He’s sleeping at my flat tonight. Sherlock came to see me when he couldn’t get in to see you.”

Mycroft frowned and pressed his lips to Lestrade’s shoulder. “Perhaps it was for the best that I was truly unavailable. Did you give him a list?”

Lestrade smiled. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“I hope that I’m wrong, Mycroft, but I have a bad feeling about this. John is stubborn and proud. He might hold on to it for a long time.”

“True, but I believe Sherlock will be patient in that respect, perhaps the only thing in the universe that might prompt that particular virtue in him. My concern is another. I sincerely hope that Sherlock’s contrition is genuine and that he doesn’t intend to jeopardize his relationship with John again. He’d be throwing away a lifetime of companionship and love for a minute of security and peace of mind.”

“I think he knows that, love, but habits are difficult to break.”

“But they _can_ be broken, Gregory.”

Lestrade rolled toward Mycroft. “The last time you tracked me like a missing person, I _was_ actually a missing person.”

“And despite the temptation that Sherlock no doubt placed before you, you don’t smell like cigarettes,” replied Mycroft before drawing Lestrade into a warm embrace.

* * *

John lowered his newspaper. “Sherlock, today, with that chap with the whiskers, how did you know—“

Without looking up from the microscope, Sherlock replied, “When you see a man has an image of the Pink ‘Un as the wallpaper on his phone, you can always draw him by a bet.”

John stared at Sherlock. Then he laughed and rested his chin on his hand and stared some more. Then he carefully schooled his voice and said, “That was amazing.”

Sherlock met John’s gaze; his eyes softened; his voice fell to a hush. “Do you think so?”

As John rose, the newspaper pages fluttered to the floor. “Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

John closed the distance between them. “What do people normally say?”

Sherlock smiled and, with a wrinkle of his nose, whispered, “Piss off!”  

“Idiots,” growled John. Then he kissed Sherlock’s lips, then his cheek. “I’m sorry for holding on to this resentment for so long. I should’ve let it go weeks ago.”

“I haven’t broken my promise, John.”

John nodded. “Something changed today. Seeing you was like seeing you for the first time. And I fell in love all over again. You _are_ brilliant, Sherlock. And I _am_ sorry. Can we start over, or start fresh, or—?”

Sherlock’s chair toppled backwards as he launched himself at John, clinging to him.

John held Sherlock’s head in his hands, returning his fervent, frantic kisses with equal ardour. Then he broke the kiss and looked down as his hands ran along Sherlock’s neck, shoulders and chest until they settled at his waist. He inhaled noisily and said, “It’s been—“

“Too long, John. Do you want—?”

“I don’t think I can wait—“

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Sherlock turned, and with the clink of buckle and the rustle of fabric, John was looking down at Sherlock’s bare buttocks. He grabbed and kneaded them, humming, “Yeah, there’ll be plenty of time for making love. Right now, I just want to,” his hand felt something hard, “uh, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s voice was low and strained. “I’ve been wearing it, on and off, for the last few days. I was keeping myself open, ready for you, in case you wanted to...”

John’s groaned echoed through the flat. “I should be more concerned than turned on by that, but…”

Sherlock reached back and dropped a small bottle of lube on the table beside them.

“…fuck, yeah.” John carefully removed the plug and dropped it on the floor. Then he undid his trousers and coated his half-hard cock with slick.

Sherlock righted the fallen chair, keeping himself bent, his hands braced on the seat. He whimpered as John inserted one slicked finger in his hole.

“Christ, Sherlock. You _are_ stretched. You’ve been open like this all week?”

“I even thought of offering you a quick fuck, no strings, if you wanted to take the edge off, but I didn’t know if...”

John teased Sherlock’s hole with the head of his cock. “I want strings, Sherlock. I want all the strings. Fucking. Making love. Crime scenes. Experiments. Growing old. A cottage in Sussex where you keep bees and I keep you. All of it.” He sank his cock deep into Sherlock. When he was fully sheathed, he breathed, “The whole fairy tale, princess. Here,” he leaned forward and clumsily squirted lube in Sherlock’s palm, “come with me, Sherlock. Jerk yourself off while I pound this gorgeous hole.”  

Sherlock’s soft cry grew louder as John pumped.

“John, John, John!”

“I’m already there, too, love.” John’s thighs smacked against Sherlock’s buttocks, and they came in quick succession.

They were both still panting when Sherlock stood and turned.

John brushed his thumb across Sherlock’s bottom lip and said, “Shower. Bath. Then you’re getting worshipped like never before, love.”

“Sounds lovely. Lead the way.”

“I’d much rather sweep you off your feet.”

“John!”

* * *

“John…”

Sherlock’s eyes were closed; his head lolled against the edge of the bathtub.

“Hmm?” Clad in his bathrobe, John sat on a low stool aside the opposite end of the tub.

“Your tongue…”

“Like it in your arse like that, do you?”

“Mm-hmm. What colour?”

John held the bottle up and peered at the bottom. “’I’m Not Really a Waitress.’ Otherwise known as ‘red.’ Here, let’s put these little things on so I don’t make a mess of you.”

Sherlock giggled. “Too late! Already a mess. Your _tongue_ , John.”

John smiled and wove the sponge between Sherlock’s toes.

Sherlock looked down at John through half-lidded eyes and slurred, “I’ve missed you, John.”

“You, too, love. So much. And to answer the question that you never asked: Major James Sholto.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He blinked and sat up, splashing water.  

“Sherlock! Don’t move!”

Sherlock turned his head towards the wall and nodded. Then he relaxed back into the water and offered John his foot. “Of course. His injury, his disfigurement. Not to mention the threats on his life. He came to London for medical appointments, maybe legal ones too.”

“And that’s why I went to a very late lunch with him last week.” John dried Sherlock’s foot with a towel.

“At a secluded, some might even say ‘romantic,’ location. He was your…” Sherlock made a flourish with his hand.

“Commanding officer.” John swiped Sherlock’s toenail with the tiny brush.

Sherlock’s eye brows rose. “But…”

“It wouldn’t have been appropriate, Sherlock. We were at war.”

“So you were the one who…”

John said nothing.

“But, John, after you returned…”

“I was in hospital…”

“But after…”

John stopped and looked at Sherlock. “There was you. End of story. Now hush, and let me finish. This is more difficult than it looks.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock with a smirk.

* * *

“Gorgeous,” said John. He stood and gave Sherlock’s feet an admiring glance. “And they will look perfect with the equally gorgeous, but,” he reached for a pair of red satin high-heeled sandals with a trio of large crystals down the front strap, “very oddly named, ‘Harvey.’”

“Not yet, John. Come here.”

John stepped back to the tub.

Sherlock raised his legs until his feet brushed John’s body. “I want to…”

John looked down and cupped Sherlock’s heels in his hands. “Sherlock, you don’t have to…”

Sherlock huffed. “Obviously.” Then he looked up at John and whined, “Show me how to bring you off like this, John. Just this. If I can…”

John snorted. He brought Sherlock’s feet to either side of his cock, guiding Sherlock’s rubbing through the fabric of his bathrobe.

“Let me see, John, how hard you are.”

John let the bathrobe fall to the floor.

“Oh! Look at you, nestled right between those two pretty feet! Pretty painted toes and that big, fat prick. Like this, John? Or a little harder? A little faster? Like this?”

John closed his eyes. “Fuck, Sherlock!”

Then Sherlock abruptly jerked his feet away.

“Sherlock?!”

Sherlock looked at John with dark, glinting eyes. “Put the shoes on me.  Bend me over. Fuck me ‘til I scream.”  

John yanked Sherlock out of the water by his hair.

And did as he was ordered.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” murmured John as he drew the covers around them.

“Me too, John.”

Sherlock wiggled his bare bottom against John. “You know, being the little spoon is not bad, sometimes. Mmm. Right there.”

John licked and kissed and worried a spot on Sherlock’s neck with his tongue and teeth.

“John?”

“Mm?”

“It’s okay to wear the shoes to bed?” The tip of Sherlock’s heel scraped John’s shin.

“Of course.” John grunted and squeezed Sherlock’s buttock. “But,” he nibbled at Sherlock’s neck, “it seems to have an effect on me. Raise that leg, princess. Let me fuck you that hole just a little more.” He nudged his cock between Sherlock’s cheeks

Sherlock groaned and rolled onto his stomach, spreading his legs wide and lifting his arse in invitation.

* * *

“You okay?”

“Go back to sleep, Gregory.”

“You’re shaking.”

“A figment of the light and shadow. I assure you that I am fine.”

“Tough day ahead?”

“Yes, very delicate matter ahead. I shall be occupied most of the day, but perhaps in the evening, we could dine together.”

“Sure. You need, uh, reinforcements?” Lestrade gestured to the wardrobe.

“No, um, well…”

“Couldn’t hurt,” suggested Lestrade. “And I’d be more than happy,” he kissed Mycroft’s wrist, “to oblige.”

“All right.”

“There. All done,” said Lestrade.

Mycroft sighed. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, then opened it and said simply, “Thank you, Gregory.”

“My pleasure.”

* * *

“Detective Inspector.”

“Hello. I know I’m a couple of hours early. Is he back from his meeting yet?”

She frowned. “He’s in his office.”

Lestrade nodded. “I thought I saw Doctor Watson, um, when I got off the lift. Was he here?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You’re as bad a liar as he is.”

“I’m not!” Then she shrugged. “He taught me how.”

“He didn’t have a meeting, did he? Telephone or otherwise?”

She shook her head. “He cleared his schedule. Except for Doctor Watson’s visit, he hasn’t come out of his office all day.” She looked over his shoulder.

“Gregory. What a pleasant surprise.”

Lestrade turned and followed Mycroft into his office.

* * *

“So how did things go? I didn’t see anything on the news.”

“Well, in some affairs, no news is, in fact, that best news possible.”

“Then why are still you shaking?”

“Gregory, I assure you that all is well. By the way, I took the liberty of making a reservation for eight o’clock at Eau.”

“O?”

“Eau, as in water. French cuisine. Very fine. I’m told that tables are booked years in advance, but surely that is an exaggeration.”

“Stop it, Mycroft! Do I look like the kind of bloke who wants to order a meal smaller than the coffee stain on my tie, with names I can’t pronounce, at a price I’d have to take out a second mortgage to afford?”

Mycroft swallowed, then said softly, “No, Gregory. Pretension is my bailiwick, not yours.”

“I want the truth! Are you sick? Is that why you look like you’re going to vomit? Is that why John was here? I love you and I am here for you, in sickness and in health, and I swear to God if you are hiding something, if something wrong with you, or something might be wrong with you, I want to know! And why are you wearing,” he waved a hand at Mycroft’s chest, “what you’re wearing? What is going on?!”

Mycroft licked his lips and mumbled, “The best laid plans…” He opened and closed a drawer and circled the desk.

Then he fell to one knee.

“Gregory, would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”

Lestrade stared, open-mouthed, at Mycroft, then at the gold band nestled in the black velvet box.

“Though not the type of man to wear jewellery, I thought you might, if you were favourably inclined to my proposal, wear it on a chain until such time as—“

Lestrade kissed him. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you gorgeous man. That’s what this was about?”

Mycroft nodded.

Lestrade plucked the ring from the box and slipped it on his finger. “Done. You can take it off and put it back on the day of the ceremony. It’s not coming off until then. I’m yours, Mycroft Holmes. For as long as we both shall live.”

“And I am yours, Gregory.”

They kissed.

Then Lestrade said, “We should definitely go to that fancy place tonight. Celebrate. But first, I’m going to take you home and divest you of a certain garment, slowly, properly, like a good fiancé should.”  

“Sounds lovely.” Mycroft rose and opened the office door.

“CONGRATULATIONS!”

A shower of hole-punch-shaped confetti rained down upon them.

Lestrade laughed. “Did you teach her to listen at doors, too?”

* * *

“Sherlock? I’m back!” John climbed the stairs. “What are you doing? Giving yourself a pedicure. I thought that was my job.”

“Keeping myself occupied while you were running your _errand_.” He sat upright. “A gift for me? Shoes. Nice shoes. _Very_ nice shoes.”

John set the shopping bag on the floor. “Now how do you know they’re very nice shoes?”

“Well, you’d hardly buy me horrid shoes, would you? But you’ve taken pains to put them in a non-descript bag in a non-descript box. That means you’re hiding something. And there’s the fact I heard the cab door slam. You didn’t even want to take them on the tube? Goodness.”

John knelt beside Sherlock with the shoebox in hand. “Sherlock, I love you. And I meant what I said, I want the whole fairy tale. Ordinary blokes would have a ring.” He opened the box. “But my princess isn’t ordinary. And never will be.”

He removed the shoe.

Sherlock gasped.

“Will you marry me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock murmured, “Shimmer suede upper. Leather sole and insole. Swarovski crystals.”

John laughed. “Seven thousand crystals. Forty-six embroidered stones. Made to fit those feet alone. A Cinderella slipper. Nothing else would do.”

“That’s why you needed money?”

John nodded. “And help keeping it a secret. I finally paid him everything I owed, so what do you say, Sherlock?”

“I say ‘yes’ and I say ‘put them on me, now!’”

John smiled. He slipped the shoes on Sherlock’s feet.

Sherlock bent and kissed him. “I love you, John.”

“I love you, too. Now, where are we going tonight to show these off?”

Sherlock hummed. “French?”

* * *

“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. We’re only going to need the two settings,” said Mycroft.

“Your others guests have just arrived,” said the waiter.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Guests?” Then his eye caught something. “Good Lord! Is that Sherlock?”

“Congratulations, Brother Mine,” said Mycroft through clenched teeth.

Sherlock’s eyes darted about Lestrade. “And to you, too, Mycroft.”

Lestrade looked down. “Nice shoes, Sherlock.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock. “My fiancé gave them to me.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped.

John appeared. “Oh, hello! How are you?” He grinned at Mycroft. “He said ‘yes,’ I take it?”

Mycroft nodded.

Lestrade thumped John on the back. “You ol’ dog! You knew? All right, let’s sit down and have some tiny food and sort this all out.”

“A toast, too?” suggested John.

“By all means.”

“To what?”

“To all things being relative!”

“Including you and me!”

Lestrade and John howled with laughter.

Mycroft and Sherlock groaned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Lestrade are having a bad day and night, respectively. H/C. Sherlock in Louboutins; Mycroft in seamed tights.
> 
> For [brain_bomb](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brain_bomb/pseuds/brain_bomb). 
> 
> Note: the Sherlock/John part is an expanded version of my Cheers ficlet [Margarita](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6604225/chapters/15948520) so if you've read that, there's nothing new here, just more detail.

“John.”

John did not look up.

“You’re still angry,” said Sherlock.

“Good deduction, that one,” replied John.

Sherlock sighed. “I understand that when the fire brigade arrives at one’s doorstep, one expects a response to an emergency, not a lift to one.”

John flipped a page of _The Lancet_ with as much indignation as the gesture allowed.

Sherlock continued addressing the back of John’s head. “Had you noted that the leader of the firefighting squad was named ‘Anderson,’ your suspicions would surely have been aroused.”

Flip.

“Nevertheless, when you arrived at the scene, I am sure that the last thing you expected was me at the top of a very tall tree.”

Flip.

“In these shoes.”

Flip.

“And I bet it was a surprise when the firefighters insisted that _you_ fetch me down.”

Flip!

“But it’s the 21st century, John, can you really expect that such a spectacle would not end up on the internet?”

_WHIRRRRRR!_

John turned sharply in his chair. “What in the hell are you doing, Sherlock?!”

Sherlock divided the light green liquid from the blender into two glasses. “I recall that three weeks ago, when you and Lestrade got into a heated argument, an offering of this particular beverage seemed to smooth things over quite nicely. For both parties.”

“That was a wager about a football match and it was Cinco de Mayo! Today—because of you—

“—Anderson’s cousin played a very important role in the affair, John. Please do not discount—“

“—I am the laughingstock of half the bloody free world!”

“Not true. Only sixteen percent of the comments were derisive; the rest were laudatory, so laudatory, in fact, that I had Mycroft remove the footage permanently. Everywhere.”

“You’re mad!”

They locked eyes.

John took a deep breath, then with a forced coolness, asked “Sherlock, please enlighten me, how did you end up—?”

Sherlock’s voice betrayed a strain similar to John’s. “As I have iterated and re-iterated—without any display of impatience or annoyance, I might add—it was surveillance, John.”

“Really, Sherlock?!” John shouted. “How a man trying on leather-print, peep-toe Louboutin pumps is anyone’s idea of incognito!”

“My target made an unexpected move. I told the shop assistant to put the pumps on Mycroft’s tab—“

“Do I even want to know why your brother has a tab at that particular establishment?”

“They sell fine hosiery as well as fine footwear.”

“Oh, God.” The journal slid from John’s lap and fluttered to the floor. “No, I did not want to know,” he muttered.

“—and then I followed him. That spot in that tree was the absolutely best vantage point, John. And these shoes are actually quite comfortable. I could climb up the tree, but getting down was trickier.” Sherlock looked down, shifting from one foot to the another and frowning.

“You are ridiculous.”

Sherlock looked up. Then he garnished each of the two glass with a round slice of lime and held them up.

“But I’m _your_ ridiculous.”

* * *

Mycroft closed the file folder on his desk. Then he rose and rubbed his eyelids and the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. There was a slight vibration, followed by an even slighter crease of his brow.

**Sleeping at mine tonight. GL**

Mycroft studied the beige wall of his office. Then he exhaled loudly, sat back down in his chair, and opened the file folder on his desk.

Lestrade stared at the screen. There was no sound, only ridiculous images dancing.

The match was over, had been over for some time. It was so dark that he could just make out the silhouettes of the army of empty beer bottles around him. The beer had also been over for some time.

It was quiet, as quiet as one tiny flat in a massive hive of other tiny flats could be.

Lestrade clicked a button and stared at nothing, listened to nothing.

Mycroft would not leave the office until he had made his decision, the most delicate one he had faced in recent memory.  He weighed possibilities for much longer than he would admit later.

Then he swore and hurried out of the room, shutting the door with a satisfying _thud_ behind him.

Greg was still staring, still listening, when he heard a knock at the door.

He held his breath until Mycroft’s arms were around him.

“I’m so glad that you’re not one of those people who feels the need to turn on lights.”

Mycroft stepped carefully around the bottles until he reached the sofa.  “I navigate darkness quite well, Gregory. And my strategy has always been to understand circumstances prior to any attempts to alter them.”

Lestrade plopped down in an armchair and rubbed his face with two hands. “This world, Mycroft.”

“Ah,” said Mycroft softly. “Yes, well…”

“I don’t usually pay attention. I’m content to focus on the slices of life’s misery that end up on my desk. Those and those alone. Put my best effort towards a bit of justice and truth and let the rest of the world go hang. But these days you can’t hide and it seems like hate is winning all over the world.” He shook his head.

“Hate is not winning—and will never win—here,” replied Mycroft, gesturing to the dark space around them. 

“We can’t live here forever, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s eye caught on a gash in the sofa cushion. “Literally, no, but figuratively…”

Lestrade curled up in Mycroft’s lap. “Can you stay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s been a while since we spend the night, well, what’s left of it, here. You hate this place.”

“Nonsense. How can I hate it? You are here. We both need privacy, space of our own, etcetera.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.” 

“But perhaps we might consider a single, joined residence that would be pleasing and novel to us both. It would be a haven where we can keep each other close and, when necessary, the world at bay.”

Lestrade smiled.

* * *

“But I’m _your_ ridiculous.”

Their eyes locked.

Sherlock’s words had hit their mark and then some.

As John’s anger cooled, his gaze traveled down Sherlock’s body, the body that he suddenly noticed—in truth, sometimes John didn’t see _or_ observe—was wrapped in black silk.

“Are you wearing anything under that dressing gown?”

John just wanted to hear the huff that would accompany—or possibly be—Sherlock’s response.

“John.” And there it was! Charming.

A practical matter remained, however. The cocktail in Sherlock’s hand looked too inviting to waste.

“Are the eyeballs still in the refrigerator?” asked John.

“I binned them yesterday!” Eye-rolling, too! Even more charming. And appropriate.

John took both margaritas and set them on the shelf in the refrigerator.

Then he moved behind Sherlock and slowly lifted the dressing gown by the hem. It was like raising the curtain on a work of art, a work of art in scaffold footwear that made the posterior facet of said work of art jut out, begging to be caressed. And bitten.

Was there ever a more inviting arse?

John’s hand brushed something. He raised an eyebrow and probed again.

“Christ, you put a plug in,” he breathed.

“I was anticipating make-up sex,” said Sherlock. “I wanted to be prepared.” The last was a bit of whine. “If you just want to bend me over the sofa-arm and…”

“Bugger you senseless?”

“Yes!”

John gently removed the plug and let it fall to the floor.

Then he bent and bit the fleshy centre of each Sherlock’s buttocks in turn. “My kitten-up-a-tree, what will make you purr?”

“Anything, John.”

John licked and bit and kneaded each plump globe. Then he rose and untied the sash of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “I like this one,” he said, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder through the black silk. “Shorter than your others. Goes nicely with the shoes.” He glanced down at the leopard print heels. “A thoroughly fuckable combination.”

“John!”

John smiled. “Sexy shoes stay on. Want those pointy heels tattooing my back later. How’s this?” He dropped, bunched the black silk at Sherlock’s waist, spread Sherlock’s cheeks, and gave his rim a cursory lick.

“More!” Sherlock’s heels clicked on the floor as he leaned forward and stomped.

He wobbled.

“Steady. Wouldn’t want you to fall. Over there.”

Sherlock arranged himself on the sofa.

“You gorgeous thing,” said John. Sherlock was kneeling on the sofa, facing away from John, dressing gown flipped, arse on the display, feet off the floor and crossed. As John approached, he put one foot on the floor and turned his body.

John began flicking the tip of his tongue over Sherlock’s rim. He paused. “More kitten licks?”

Sherlock whimpered. “Yes, kitten licks for your kitten! Make me purr, John.”

John did.

* * *

Much later, when Sherlock was nestled against him and he still felt the sting of spike tips on his back, John brushed his lips across Sherlock’s temple and whispered, “Any ladder, any tree, I will always be there, Sherlock.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

“Feeling better?” murmured Mycroft.

Lestrade nodded. “Nothing ever seems quite as bleak as it does at three o’ clock in the morning.”

“Indeed.”

Lestrade twisted in the bed. “You’re still here.”

“I’ve the morning off.”

Lestrade laughed. “Try again. I’m going to be your husband, remember?”

“I re-arranged and cancelled and postponed until I have the morning off.”

“So you can cuddle in a shoe box with me?”

“So that I provide my future husband with the attention and care that he so richly deserves at a time when he’s feeling—not unlike many—a bit vulnerable.”

“You’re a romantic sod.”

Mycroft hummed.

“It’s like one of those fairy tales where I’m the beast and you’re the princess who takes pity on me and reverses my curse.”

“Your intuition is strong, Gregory.” Lestrade felt a smooth leg brush against his. He put his hand on Mycroft’s waist and ran it down his leg as far as he could reach.

Smooth, smooth, incredibly smooth.

“Tights.”

“Yes. I was feeling a bit, well, Belle-ish.”

“Belle-ish? Like…”

“The female protagonist of ‘The Beauty and the Beast’ film.”

“Fuck!” Lestrade jumped up on his knees and threw the bedding off.

Mycroft rolled onto his stomach.

Lestrade’s jaw dropped.

The tights were like a shadow on Mycroft’s skin from waist to toe, but along the centre of each leg was a design, a dark vine of red rose buds and in between each flower the vine spelled out ‘love.’

“Oh, love,” sighed Lestrade. He straddled Mycroft and ran his hands up and down his legs, enjoying the soft texture, outlining the embroidery with his fingers.

“There’s sweet, lovely,” Lestrade’s hands were rougher now, squeezing Mycroft’s calves and thighs, “and so very fuckable.” He re-arranged himself so that he could nuzzle into the folds between buttock and thigh.

Then he licked the silk.

Mycroft groaned.

“You bought two pairs of these?”

“Of course.”

“So I can rip a hole in these and rim you and prep you…”

“Gregory.”

“…then turn you over, put these gorgeous legs over my shoulders and fuck you…”

“Gregory!”

“…then rip another hole to jerk you off? Or suck you off, if you prefer.”

“GREGORY!”

_BANG! BANG!_

“Neighbours,” grunted Lestrade. He flipped around and put his lips right next to Mycroft’s ear. “How about I do all that and we try—very hard—to be as quiet as mice.”

“You’re a beast,” groaned Mycroft softly.

“And you’re my beauty, my beautiful Belle.”

They were quiet, sated and satisfied and smiling. Lestrade was tracing the word ‘husband’ on Mycroft’s chest with his finger when a foul odour wafted into the room.

Mycroft frowned.

Lestrade laughed. “Neighbours. They can cook—and burn—anything.”

“Well, I believe I must be on my way, but on another matter raised earlier…”

“A new home.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Yes! Before or after the ‘I do’s’?”

There was a loud thud. A baby’s wail. A pair of angry voices.

They both looked toward the ceiling and spoke in unison.

“Before.”

* * *

 John sipped. “Nice. Where’d you get the recipe?”

“It was recommended to me on YouTube.”

* * *

"House-warming gift?"

"Yes," said Mycroft, frowning at the box.

"What is it?"

"A 'Do it Yourself' Margarita Kit," read Mycroft slowly. He looked at Lestrade. "From Sherlock & Doctor Watson."

Lestrade grinned. "Great! I love 'em and nothing smooth things over better than one of these." He tapped the box.

"Really?"

Lestrade hummed. "Now, come on, let's finish the unpacking. I want to break in the new bed--very loudly."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our pairs explore their kinks at a distance. Masturbation. Sexting. Voyeurism & exhibitionism.
> 
> For [brain_bomb](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brain_bomb/pseuds/brain_bomb).
> 
> Sherlock is in [Sophia Webster Chiara sandals](https://www.net-a-porter.com/us/en/product/708851?cm_mmc=ProductSearchPLA-_-US-_-Shoes-_-Sandals-Google&gclid=CKqh-q2-jM4CFQlbhgodn0EGyg%22). Mycroft in Pamela Mann's [Oui et Non](https://pamelamann.co.uk/oui-et-non-seamed-tights%22) seamed tights.

John turned on his phone as he exited the airplane.

_Beep!_

He looked down and raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock never sent emails, especially emails with attachments.

**Copper Breechesv4_edits_SH**

Oh.

Once again, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to serve as an unauthorised and unwelcome editor of John’s latest blog entry.

John didn’t bother reading the email or clicking on the attachment. He was not in the mood for sarcastic grammar lessons. He wanted to get settled at the hotel, pick up a conference programme, find Stamford, and decide on a plan for the next three days.

Sherlock and his acerbic commentary would have to wait.

* * *

John woke.

Where was he?

Hotel. Dublin.

He reached for his phone.

Three o’clock.

He extended an arm and raked it down the far side of the bed.

No Sherlock?

No Sherlock. Conference.

John sighed.

What was it about waking up at three o’clock in the morning alone in a dark hotel room that made one feel so melancholy? No, not melancholy, some other word, the type of word that would attract Sherlock’s scoffing if it appeared in the write-up of a case.

_Really, John? Was the witness actually glum? Not gloomy? Or perhaps she was singing the proverbial blues?_

What was it about three o’clock in the morning that made you miss the insults of a colossal tit?

John remembered Sherlock’s email and tapped his phone.

He frowned.

The attachment wasn’t a document. It was a video.

“Oh my God.”

John rolled onto his stomach.

Sherlock’s feet. His bare feet.

No sound. No movement until long elegant fingers began weaving a foam separator between the toes of one foot.

John’s body tightened.

He stopped the video when the second foam separator was in place. He raced to his wash bag and dugout a half-empty bottle of lube, a relic of the Hampshire case. Then he grabbed a pair of flannels and dampened one under the tap.

All set!

He flew back to the bed and settled himself comfortably beneath the covers, slipping off his pants and letting them slide to the floor.

Every stroke of the tiny brush across a toenail was met with a stroke of John’s hand along his shaft. Wanting to draw out the pleasure, he slowed his movements as much as the on-screen motions would allow.

One by one, the tips of Sherlock’s toes were transformed until they all shimmered.

“Gorgeous.”

In the video, there was a soft, pursed exhale.

“That’s right, love. Blow on them.”

John closed his eyes for a moment and imagined Sherlock’s feet cradling his cock, rubbing back and forth. Those little pink pebbles making him hard, making him leak, making him feel so damned…

He pried his eyes open and gasped.

The feet were slipping into shoes.

Rose-gold leather sandals. A thin strap across the toes and another at the ankle.

John’s fist began to pump faster.

Ankle straps were buckled. Feet turned.

“Oh, love. Sherlock, Sherlock…”

Butterflies. The tall heels were pink shimmery butterflies that fluttered three steps until they were out of view.

John whimpered, “Come back.”

Then the butterflies reappeared and pivoted directly in front of the camera.

Slowly. Left to right. Back and forth.

John gripped the phone and tapped clumsily.

**FUCK! JW**

The response was immediate.

**Don’t come, John. SH**

“You bloody bastard!”

John threw the phone across the room. Then he swore again and got to his feet, yelping as he stubbed his toe on the edge of bed frame. He yelped again when he threw on the harsh lights and fell to the floor, hunting for the slim device between cords and furniture legs.

“There you are.” He grabbed the phone. “What the fuck?”

**Wait for me. SH**

“You’re coming here?” John’s eyes widened, then he smirked.

**Miss me already? JW**

**Work. SH**

John’s eyebrows rose.

A case in Dublin. What were the odds? Sherlock would probably tell him when he arrived.

John flipped to the still image of the shoes and painted toes. He groaned, then looked at the clock.

**Just one wank? So pretty. JW**

**Wait. SH**

**Bastard. JW**

**Cold shower. SH**

John hurled the phone into the rumpled bedding, then stomped to the toilet.

* * *

Steam filled the small space.

John stepped into the shower. He closed his eyes as the hot water pelted him. Then he exhaled and spoke the only word he was thinking of. The only word that mattered.

“Sherlock.”

He wouldn’t bring the shoes. Not on a case. But the toes would still be painted.

“Sherlock.”

John’s hand strayed to his cock. He leaned back against the tiles and thought of butterflies, fluttering around his cock.

“Pink.”

Suddenly, a cold draft shook him from his reverie.

“I said ‘wait.’”

“You fucking bastard! You were already here.”

“If it’s any consolation, John…”

The shower door opened.

“Oh, fuck me!” exclaimed John as he took in the butterfly sandals and the pearly pink toes.

“Gladly. But let me take my shoes off first. They are leather, after all.”

Sherlock was wrapped in a fluffy hotel bathrobe. He bent his knee and braced his foot on the side of the counter, unbuckling one ankle strap, then the other. He slipped the shoes off and set them outside.

“I also said ‘cold shower,’ John.”

“Come here, you gorgeous thing.” John could not take his eyes off Sherlock’s feet. “I don’t care if you are here for a case…”

Sherlock untied the sash of the bathrobe. “As ever, John.”

“What?”

“I said ‘work.’ The work of instructing you in the basics of sentence composition. You used three different verb tenses in your latest chronicle in addition to inventing one that is not actually part of the English language.”

John smiled. “You _did_ miss me.”

Sherlock shrugged. He produced a pink bottle and flashed the tiny label at John.

“I blame the polish. ‘Pinking of You.’”

Then he let polish and bathrobe fall to floor and pressed his body to John’s.

* * *

“Christ, are we glad to see you, Gregson!”

“Yeah, yeah, here comes the cavalry. Our man hasn’t moved?”

Lestrade shook his head and gestured to the window. “Three days we’ve been watching him. You brought your own equipment?”

He nodded. “The Powers that Be say that,” he pointed to the telescope, “is due back to Property.”

“Sir, should I…?” asked Donovan.

“I’ll pack it up and return it myself. Go home. Get some sleep. See you in twelve hours if our bird doesn’t fly to coop by then.”

“From your lips,” said Gregson, waving a hand skyward.

* * *

Lestrade slung the heavy bag over his shoulder and lumbered down the hall.

_Beep!_

**Room 2525. MH**

Lestrade smiled. When he reached the lift, he pressed the ‘up’ button.

The key card was in the door.

“My?”

The room was empty. Dark. Silent.

Lestrade set the bag on the bed.

**Where are you? GL**

**Room 2511. MH**

“Christ, I got it wrong.”

**Not your hotel. MH**

Lestrade frowned, then went to the window.

**Smart copper. MH**

Lestrade dropped his head, grinning, then glanced at the bag.

* * *

“Oh my God.”

With the telescope, Lestrade could see a leg in the window of the hotel room across the street. The word ‘Oui’ was written in curled, dark script along the seam of one half of a pair of pale pink tights.

He picked up his phone. Texting was for children. And Sherlock.

“Is that you?” he asked. Rhetorical question. He knew the leg better than he knew his own.

Silence.

“You are one sexy bastard.”

Silence.

“I’ve got twelve hours off. Should I come over there?”

The leg disappeared and was replaced by another, bearing the opposite message in equally elegant script.

“Non?” Lestrade frowned. “Are you working?!” Another rhetorical question. He laughed. “You’ve got some fucking balls, which I also love.”

Finally, there was a voice on the other end.

“Says the sworn officer of the law making improper use of police property.”

Lestrade laughed again. “It may be unauthorised, but to not look at you, gorgeous, would be a crime.”

“You make me blush.”

“You make me hard.”

“Let me hear you.”

"Fuck!” Lestrade dropped to the bed. “Well, lucky for you, after a three-day stakeout, I am an expert at watching the world through this thing with my hands full.”

“Oh God, My. I’m not going to rip those. No matter how much I want that cock and arse.”

Lestrade stroked his shaft.

“I’m going to roll them down gently. Maybe even wash them by hand for you, if I can stand it without needing to jerk off every minute. Pretty little things. You know I love you?”

_Oui._

“Love you so much. Fuck. Love your gorgeous body wrapped in silk and whalebone and satin and lace and whatever else your wicked mind conjures. Are you hard, princess?”

_Oui._

“Are you touching yourself?”

_Non._

“Are you going to touch yourself?”

_Non._

“Waiting for me?”

_Oui._

“Oh Christ. I’m leaking, love, and hard at the thought of you waiting, waiting until I can touch you and suck you and do any blessed thing to you that you desire. You’re the strong one. I am the weak one. So weak for you. Watching like a Peeping Tom. Wanking like a pervert in a dark hotel room to my sweet princess in her pretty pink Frenchy tights.”

He pumped harder, faster.

“You want me to come for you?”

_Oui._

“I’m coming, right now, just for you, making a right mess of myself. Fuck!"

* * *

Lestrade cleaned himself with a wet flannel. “I’ve got eleven hours before I have to come back here. Will I see you at home?”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Gregory, on the first part, but yes, I will see in a few hours.”

Lestrade stopped and stared at the phone.

“You’re here for our guy downstairs! Fuck me! I sit on him for three days and bloody Gregson’s going to get the action!”

“I’m afraid my performance was a bit of a consolation prize.”

Lestrade sighed.

“You’re a prize, no matter what, Mycroft. Well, I’m going to go home and get some sleep. Maybe we can play ’20 questions’ when I wake up?”

“ _Mais oui_.”


End file.
